The new wagon lines had become a quagmire, and Rumbald had got his way at last and had gone back to construct new horse-standings. No doubt he was more concerned about the exhausting and dangerous journey to and from the O.P. than with the comfort and health of the horses; but Rawley was glad to be rid of him, for in the confined space of the little mess his presence and personality were rather overpowering.
Rawley himself did not mind the extra duty which one officer the less at the guns entailed, but he was resentful on Piddock’s account. Piddock had been shaken by being blown down the dug-out steps, and three days later he had again been blown over by a crump when on his way up to the O.P. Physically he had suffered no injury on either occasion, and he was not the man to talk about his mental reactions. Outwardly he was as cheerful as ever, but on one occasion, during a heavy strafe, his lighting of a cigarette was performed a shade too nonchalantly to deceive the keen eye of a friend like Rawley. If anyone needed and deserved a quiet spell at the wagon lines it was Piddock, not Rumbald.
For days the rain continued, and it became the chief source of discomfort. The old German trench behind the guns was a foot deep in liquid mud. It was impossible to keep the water out of the dug-outs. Clothing became sodden, and clean underclothing freshly put on felt damp and sticky. The guns on their platforms of timber baulks sank deeper and deeper in the ooze, and threatened to disappear altogether as more than one horse and wagon had done. The ammunition wagons needed two and even three teams to drag them over roads that were like ploughed fields, and the journey from the wagon lines and back occupied from sunset till sunrise. Shells, with delay action fuses, that buried themselves deeply in the earth before detonating, left pits a dozen feet deep into which the unwary fell to be drowned in the foul water that filled them.
The enemy were using a large number of gas shells, particularly at night. When the ghostly Verey lights were rising and falling on the front, they came whimpering and sighing through the darkness like lost souls, the liquid gas within the shell swilling like water in the belly of a trotting horse. The men in rain-washed steel helmets and respirators floundering in the quagmire resembled reptiles emerging from the primeval ooze. The mud itself was impregnated with gas, and few men in the battery escaped scot free in that polluted air. Rawley could speak hardly above a whisper, and for a day Cane lost his voice entirely.
Late one afternoon, after a spell at the guns, Rawley squelched along the trench and down the steep steps to the mess dug-out. A battered acetylene lamp flared on a bracket that had been driven into the glistening damp earth wall of the dug-out. Piddock, who had been on duty at the O.Pip, sat dejectedly on a box. He wore his muddy trench coat, and his dented steel helmet lay on the rough table before him.
Rawley took off his respirator and hung it on a nail. He took out his pouch and began filling his pipe. “Had a good day?” he asked.
Without shifting his position Piddock replied shortly, “Bloody awful!”
Rawley rolled up the pouch and returned it to his pocket. “Dear mother,” he quoted conversationally, “this war’s a beggar, but don’t tell aunty!” He drew at his pipe and threw away the match. “Yes, the fellow who wrote that classic was about right.”
To his amazement Piddock thumped the table madly with his fist and shrieked, “Shut up! Shut up! For Christ’s sake, shut up!”
In the startled silence that followed, Piddock raised a glass shakily to his lips, and Rawley saw for the first time that it was three parts full of neat whisky. He opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again and remained staring with wrinkled brow at the greasy upturned collar of Piddock’s trench coat. Then he took his respirator from the nail and went quietly up the steps.
He went in search of Cane. Piddock was cracking up, and it was a damned shame the way Rumbald was allowed to play the skrim-shanker back at the wagon lines. In the army there was too much of that working the willing horse. A good fellow, just because he did his job and was reliable, was put on dirty job after dirty job, till he either cracked up or got killed, while the shirker, just because he was unreliable, was never put on an important and therefore dirty job. Piddock had never shirked. He ought to have a rest, and Cane ought to give it him.
Near number three pit he met Sergeant Jameson, and in passing asked him if Gunner Davies was back yet.
“Gunner Davies has gone down the Line with a nasty dose of shell-shock, sir,” answered the sergeant. “You haven’t heard about young Jackson then, sir?”
Rawley had not. Sergeant Jameson had the story from Gunner Davies, told jerkily between violent fits of shivering and teeth-chattering.
On his way back from the O.Pip that afternoon, Piddock, with Davies and Jackson, had been crossing the churned-up area of twisted wire and shell holes that had once been no-man’s-land, when the German gunners suddenly opened a heavy strafe with five-nines. Piddock and his two men, progressing by short rushes between the bursts, had nearly reached the edge of the danger zone, when a shell, whose warning scream had been drowned in the crashing detonation of another shell, caught them unawares. Piddock and Davies flung themselves flat just in time, but Jackson was hurled backwards by the black uprearing fountain of earth. A second later, when the fragments were still whining through the air, Piddock rose and ran towards the prone figure. It writhed convulsively as he approached it, but when the tousled head from which the steel helmet had fallen turned towards him he pulled up in horror. Not a vestige of face remained. Where it should have been above the open flap of the box respirator on the chest was now a pulpy, purple mess like trampled bullock’s liver, with dark cavities where eyes and mouth should have been.
Davies, who had been Jackson’s friend, drew back in terror and began to shout hysterically. Piddock manfully stood his ground till the thing, attracted by the shouts, struggled blindly to its feet and tottered, mopping and mowing, towards him. Then he, too, turned and fled. And the thing followed, mowing and gibbering, till mercifully it stumbled into a brimming shell hole and lay still, half submerged in the slowly reddening water.
Cane was in the control dug-out. He looked up when Rawley pulled aside the gas curtain. “Hullo, Rawley,” he said. “News just come from brigade. We go out tomorrow night.”
With his thoughts on Piddock, Rawley answered, “And about time too.”
Cane grinned and nodded. His own tanned face was as lean as a headhunter’s trophy, and there were black caverns beneath his eyes. “Yes, about time. We all look rather like advertisements for patent medicines—before taking.”
IV
The relief which took place on the following evening was carried out in record time. There were no guns to be man-handled out of the pits. B Battery was exchanging its guns for those of the relieving battery. A G.S. wagon came up at dusk and started back again as soon as its load of blankets, ground sheets, mess kit, and other kit were stowed into it. Piddock marched off the men as soon as the personnel of the relieving battery arrived, and Cane and Rawley stayed to hand over.
Accompanied by the C.O. of the relieving battery they visited, for the last time, the gun-pits and the telephone and control dug-outs. Then, having handed over maps, S.O.S. lines and other details, they returned to the mess and drank good luck to their successors. Ten minutes later they had picked up their horses and grooms and were on the way back.
The weather, as though repenting of its former treatment of them, was perfect. Stars glittered overhead, and the great yellow disc of the moon hung like a paper lantern above the ragged walls of the village near the wagon lines as they clattered through it. Three hundred yards along the main road beyond, they came up with the rear of the column, Whedbee and Piddock with the old wagons and the guns taken over from the relieving battery. Rumbald had gone on ahead as billeting officer. Tall trees bordered the road across which the moonlight lay in dazzling white bars. Pipes and cigarettes glowed in the mouths of the swaying mounted figures, and the mournful air of a sentimental song could be heard fitfully above the rumbling wheels
and jingling accoutrements of the long dark, slowly moving column.
Hour after hour they jogged along through the keen night air. Behind them the Verey lights faded from view and the throbbing roll of the guns sank to a distant grumble. The pulsating drone of a marauding plane, invisible in the silver radiance overhead, and the distant “whu-ump” of a bomb were the only disturbers of the peace. With echoing rumble of wheels and horses’ feet the column passed through sleeping villages where the moonlight gave haloes to the whitewashed cottages, where green and red lamps and a silent statuesque sentry, with silver-tipped bayonet, proclaimed a headquarters, or where a line of lorries stood dark and silent in the deep shadow of the houses.
The moon had sunk behind a pine spinney and shone between the black trunks like the eye of a caged tiger, when at last the short-coated figure of Bombardier Wilson, one of the billeting party, rose from the darkness of the roadside and led the way towards the short black church spire that stabbed the sky close ahead. The village street was dark, silent, and deserted till the bombardier tapped on a window. Then an invisible door opened, spilling a flood of light across the road, and the broad figure of Rumbald, pipe in mouth, was silhouetted in the doorway. The bombardier saluted. “Battery just coming in, sir,” he said. And a moment later the rumbling of wheels, the clatter of hoofs, and the gruff voices of men, echoed between the houses as the battery came in, halted, and moved off section by section to its billets.
CHAPTER XI
I
Pipe in mouth Rawley sat on the soft grass of an orchard with his back against an apple tree. A map was spread on his knees, and he was engaged in measuring the distance between this village and Hocqmaison, between himself and Berney. On the grass nearby Piddock lay full length with his fingers locked behind his head, gazing upwards at the small white clouds sailing overhead. Down at the stream half a dozen men in shirt sleeves, with boots, socks, and puttees off, were standing in the water and washing clothes. On the bank numbers of shirts, vests, and pairs of pants lay spread out in the sun.
Whedbee, with his hands in his breeches pockets, strolled up and sat down by Rawley and Piddock. He unrolled a tobacco pouch and began filling his curved pipe. “This is one of the best places we have struck,” he said appreciatively.
“Touch wood—or we shan’t stay,” cried Piddock.
“I am,” answered Whedbee, holding up his pipe. “I have just sent off a half-limber to get stores,” he continued. “We will have the canteen going tonight.” He drew appreciatively at his pipe. “And we might arrange a concert tomorrow night. That big barn No. 3 section are in would be just the place for it.”
Piddock murmured: “Behold our noble P.R.I. The conscientious exhilarator at work.”
“Well, we must keep the men amused,” answered Whedbee.
“Then why not organize a crown and anchor tournament,” suggested Piddock.
“Too many rival firms,” grinned Whedbee. “But we might have a football match tomorrow afternoon. I must see Sergeant Jagger about that. You will play, won’t you?”
Piddock groaned. “It’s so much like work,” he protested.
“And give me a miss,” said Rawley. “I rather want to go off for the day tomorrow if I can.”
Piddock turned and gave Rawley a significant look.
“You are a pair of slackers,” complained Whedbee. “Loafing is a positive disease with you.”
Piddock removed the blade of grass from his mouth and regarded the chewed stem. “Rawley’s trouble is more organic than that,” he said innocently, and he began humming softly, “If you were the only girl in the world.”
II
The officers of B Battery gathered in the mess that night were a contented party. They wore slacks and polished brown shoes. Fresh butter was on the table, which was covered with a clean white cloth. The gramophone was playing “Destiny” waltz, and Piddock and Whedbee, clasped amorously in each other’s arms, were circling dreamily in a corner. Rawley was playing patience at one end of the table, and Rumbald was showing the mess corporal how to make a new cocktail with some cognac he had got from an old man in the village. Cane was absent. He had gone to Brigade in the neighbouring village, and they were waiting dinner till he returned.
Suddenly a voice was heard outside, and a moment later he came in. He shied his cap on to a chair and unbuckled his belt. “Hullo, Rumbald! What have you got there?” he exclaimed.
“New cocktail: Gunner’s Glory! Try one?”
Cane took the glass and tossed off the concoction. “Um! Not bad,” he said, pursing up his mouth judicially. He put down the glass. “Well, you fellows, we’re not staying long in the country.”
“I thought these billets were too good to be true,” said Whedbee, breaking off his dance with Piddock.
“How long are we staying?” asked Rumbald.
“We move up and in again tomorrow. Take over new positions tomorrow night.”
“Oh, my gawd!” complained Rumbald. “Anyone would think we were the only bloody battery in France.”
Rawley glanced at Piddock; but his face was as expressionless as a mask.
“And I’ve just bought all that canteen stuff,” groaned Whedbee. “Where are we going, sir?”
“Somewhere just south of Arras; pretty god-forsaken spot from all accounts. But there is one bright glimmer in the otherwise cloudy firmament: leave is re-opening shortly. You are first on the list, Piddock, you young blighter. Well, come on, let’s have some food. I’m going to bed early and make the most of that mattress I’ve got.”
III
All next day the battery marched along the straight, tree-bordered roads, and with the dusk reached the outlying houses of Arras. Here the wheels rattled noisily over the pavé of narrow streets where the windows of roofless buildings gaped like sightless eyes. On they went through the petite place, where the jagged stump of the once-soaring hôtel-de-ville glimmered eerily in the moonlight, and across the huge grande place, silent and deserted; through endless streets and little squares where grass flourished between the cobbles and shattered lamp-posts threw crooked shadows on the moonlit walls.
Beyond the city they entered a desert country of rank jungle grass, with here and there an abandoned army hut sagging dejectedly in the moonlight. The soaring Verey lights ahead marked the end of the journey.
Dawn came and revealed the surroundings of their new home. The position lay in a shallow valley; the bottom of which was flat and rather marshy. The stream which flowed through it was enclosed between banks some five feet in height. The guns were dug into the near bank so as to fire across the stream, and were covered with the usual camouflage netting. An old grass-grown communicating trench ran up to the slope behind, and the skyline was broken by weed-grown excavations with here and there a bent screw picket and a tangled strand of wire. The slope in front beyond the stream was also scarred with disused trenches, pitted with shell holes, weed-grown, and littered with rusty tins and wire.
“Quite one of the beauty spots of the western front,” commented Cane, as he went round the position in the full light of day. “And we ought to indent for lifebelts; for if Brother Bosche pitches a few heavies into the bank we shall be flooded out in ten minutes.”
Cane did not approve of the mess dug-out either. It was dug into the river bank a little distance from the guns. “Wouldn’t stop a pop-gun bullet,” he growled. “And a five-nine within fifteen yards will probably shake the whole damn thing in on top of us.”
CHAPTER XII
I
Leave re-opened on the following day, and Piddock went back to the wagon lines in the morning. The adjutant also was going on leave, and he offered to call at the wagon lines and give Piddock a lift back to railhead in a car. And so, after breakfast, Piddock put the yellow leave warrant in his pocket, donned his trench coat and bulging haversack, and set out.
Whedbee turned up for lunch with Phillips of C Battery. C Battery had recently acquired a Minoru cloth, and Phillips was anxious to introd
uce the game to B Battery. A new sandbag was found and slit up to form a cloth, and the necessary lines were marked on it with a blue and red pencil from Cane’s map case. Phillips worked out the odds as nearly as he could remember them, and then, with revolver ammunition for horses and a pack of cards, the game began.
Phillips, to his joy, was banker, but he lost steadily; and he became the butt of a roar of laughter when Whedbee, who had spent his life teaching mathematics, pointed out in his quiet, humorous way, that the odds were so arranged that the bank could not win.
“Never mind, it’s a good game,” grinned Cane. “And Phillips is the sort of chap I’ve been looking for for years. Come on, Whedbee, I will show you what I mean about those old oil drums.”
Cane and Whedbee disappeared up the dug-out steps, and Rumbald, with pencil and paper, began to work out odds more favourable to the bank. Phillips lighted a cigarette and looked on ruefully.
From outside came suddenly a long drawn whine, followed by a bump and a muffled explosion. The dug-out shook convulsively. Then in rapid succession came again that whine—crash; whine—crash; whine—crash. And at each crash the dug-out flinched, and smoke drifted across the top of the steps.
Phillips made a grimace and looked up. “Much of a roof over?” he asked.
“Wouldn’t stop that sort,” replied Rawley.
The mess-cook’s voice came calling down the steps: “Sir! Mr. Rawley! Mr. Rawley! The C.O. and Captain Whedbee are lying out there—copped it, sir!”
Rawley, followed by Phillips, dashed up the steps. Every three or four seconds a shell, preceded by its hurtling whine, burst with a thunder-clap—“c-r-r-ump!”—and a great uprearing fountain of earth.
“Come on!” cried Rawley. “By short dashes—after the next one.” Whine—crash! The three men darted out. Again that swiftly travelling whine hurtled towards them, and they went flat. Crash! They were up again and on. They found Cane lying badly wounded in the thigh and shoulder. Rawley and Phillips took his head and shoulders, and the mess-cook took his legs. They brought him in and laid him on the table, which was still covered with Phillips’ improvised Minoru cloth. They left Rumbald to get busy with field dressings, and went back for Whedbee.
Behind the Lines Page 12